Bruma
by bluRaaven
Summary: From afar Bruma looks much like Wulf remembers it; painted in the colour of sludge that it nearly drowns in every spring, sleepy, and embedded into the mountainside. The smell more than the sight is what tinges his return with an excruciating, exquisite pain. The town feels way too familiar for a place that hasn't been his home in two decades.
1. Another reason that you want to be alive

A weatherworn sign marks the crossroads upon the Old Road. Two arrows, bearded with lichen, point the ways to Bruma and Weyrest. Their surface feels slick beneath the traveller's calloused fingers as he traces grooves that are distinguishable by touch only, lying lost and forgotten under their guise of moss. The wood is soft and spongy with rot, and where the man's nail digs in it leaves a small mark of its own to be discovered by a future wanderer.

A white cloud forms with the man's exhale, quickly dissipating and becoming one with the dense mists that streak their way through the silent forest and up the mountain range, as if the rock itself was a giant hearth in the broiling cauldron of the valley, and the white vapours merely lazy tendrils of smoke.

Were another soul present, then the sound of his sigh would reveal to them longing and exasperation, and the merest hint of a story left untold. But the only witnesses to the miniscule gesture are tall firs and larches, naked here, where the land is still in the grip of the winter. They stand shrouded in fog, mute spectators of an outlaw's homecoming.

The man's hand falls away from the sign, then slowly, with the same deliberate care others reserve for places of worship, rises to push back his hood. Black hair falls to frame his face, lightly curling with the humidity. The Nord wipes his damp brow. Despite it being his daily companion, rain still feels like a novelty to him.

His gaze turns to the mountain range before him, his thoughts to the last great leg of the journey awaiting him. At the northernmost end of the Empire the Jerall Mountain Pass constitutes the only link between Cyrodiil and Skyrim within a hundred miles. The path is by far the best-travelled one, widened by hundreds of feet into a road, older than any Imperial highway. Once, Cloud Ruler Temple stood guard over the pass, but the invasion of Aldmeri forces after the war left the ancient Blade stronghold in ruins.

The man learned of the purge of Bruma by word of mouth only, snatching up the rumours of his hometown in alehouses and brothels with the same eager desperation a stray gobbles down any morsels thrown to him. He had been fortunate to escape the wrath of the Thalmor when he had been forced to flee, a boy of merely nine years.

Before he sets out again, the Nord beats his staff against his shoes in an attempt to get rid of the excess mud and foliage. More will accumulate, lending real weight to his every step, in addition to the symbolic one already present. Then he hoists his pack higher and strides forth with the measured, mile-devouring stride of a man well-adjusted to the nomadic life.


	2. Just to watch the Bruises heal

From afar Bruma looks much like Wulf remembers it; painted in the colour of sludge that it nearly drowns in every spring, sleepy and embedded into the mountainside. Drifts of dirty, late snow pile up against the sides of the timber-built cottages, hiding from the sun's weak rays. The many chimneys cough up smoke that becomes one with the low-hanging clouds and perfumes the cold air with the warm aroma of burning wood.

The smell more than the sight is what tinges Wulfryk's return with an excruciating, exquisite pain. The town feels way too familiar for a place that hasn't been his home in two decades.

It is with relief that he notices signs of change.

The road is the first to catch his eye, made out of slabs of stone where there was only dirt before, packed with straw and wood shavings to fill in the mud-holes that always appeared after Rain's Hand. To Wulf's right are the stables where Ragvir no longer tends to the horses, his life-blood taken by Garmr's sword in tribute for their escape. To his left he can see the gatehouse where actual soldiers, and just not a voluntary guard of townsfolk see to it that the order and peace are kept.

The Bruma accent, Cyrodiilic tempered with the softer melody of the Nordic language, comes easily, at least until the gatekeeper asks,

"Where are you from, stranger?"

"From the south," Wulf replies, knowing that his face will betray him, even before his voice does.

The guard nods along. "Trouble's brewing up north. Best ya know if ya plan on crossing the pass."

Wulf gives the man his thanks for the warning, even if this is hardly news to him. The wayside taverns were all ripe with talk of civil unrest in Skyrim, though the possible outbreak of a war did not deter many travellers bound for the far north. After all, for any merchant willing to take a risk, conflict and opportunity often go hand in hand.

It is such hunters of fortune who crowd the inns and establishments offering a mat and a morning meal for those with tight purses and loose lips. Where the crooked alleys offer some protection from the wind, Wulfryk passes gaggles of folks huddling around lit braziers and talking in hushed voices among themselves. They ignore him same as he does them; just one more Nord steering homeward – be it to reunite with family, or lured by the prospect of making a name for himself in the battles to come, or by the promise of mercenary work.

And while the latter may indeed be of interest to Wulf, tonight he is bound only for the upper part of town. The common room of the Jerall View Inn is packed so tightly, he has to leave his gear in the entrance hall, right under the coat hooks, before he can shoulder his way to the bar. The proprietor's eyes go wide at the sight of gold, and she hurries to oblige him when Wulf asks for,

"Your best room."

Apparently, while willing to indulge in the food and beverages the inn offers, none of the journeying peddlers want to risk spending too much of their coin before they have the opportunity to make more.

Wulf doesn't care that his resources of Septims are dwindling, fast. Less metal means less weight to lug around, and he wants the comfort of a bed before he'll be back to knocking at farmers' doors, trying to convince them that his stories are worth what little they can spare.

The innkeeper – her name is Martha, he learns past the first flight of steps – leads him all the way up to one of the only two rooms that offer privacy. It is located right under the gabled roof and while he doesn't doubt that outside the Jeralls are very much still present, the view is sadly lacking.

Martha prepares the room for inhabitation with the brisk, absent-minded mannerism of somebody who not only knows every move by heart, but has performed them countless of times. She is proud to share the history of the building with him while she works. Did he know that the Hero of Kvatch had once rented this very room? Or that Martin Septim had been a patron, also?

Wulf shakes his head at that and smirks at the thought of sleeping in the same bed as a descendant of the Septim line, even if they are a few hundred years apart. A legendary emperor is a step up from the livestock he usually has to share his space with, he guesses.

Sheets and towels appear on the bed in record time, and by the time Wulfryk has rid himself of his boots, a fire has already consumed the kindling in the hearth and a pleasant warmth spreads through the room, chasing away the chill. Martha collects his travel-stained clothes last, promising that his laundry will be done within the day, and Wulf enjoys the tranquillity that descends over the room when the door closes after her.

He spins around to take in his surroundings; from the inviting, if probably deceiving thickness of the mattress, now clad in crisp white linen, and over the hardwood furniture to the red velvet chaise lounge in front of the hearth.

Once, for a boy, this establishment was the height of imaginable luxury.

Wulf smiles, though there is a hint of something underlying the expression that belies the outward appearance of happiness. The once-plush fabric of the long chair is thin, in danger of ripping in places. The wood is rough with grooves and scratches. Marring its dark surface, a lighter circle marks the spot on the nightstand where uncountable guests before him must have put down their water mugs.

The entire room gives off the appearance of comfort, worn with use that it is; welcoming, but hardly special.

Maybe come nightfall it will regain its magic.

Wulfryk hurries up with the business of washing up and making himself presentable, and hastily dons whatever clean clothes he can get a hold of. He all but jumps into his boots only to find them unpleasantly cold. Almost immediately dampness begins to soak into the fabric of his socks, but he prefers the familiar discomfort over having to sit here, with nothing to do but to contemplate the disenchantment that adulthood brings.

Instead, Wulfryk sets out to find the shack that Gaio had insisted was haunted. He takes a few wrong turns on his way to the stonemason's quarter, walking the narrow alleys with relish rather than haste. He fancies he can see familiar footprints in the frozen mud, half- washed away by the flow of time. It is as well. The man he is would not fit in a boy's footprints. He decides to follow them nonetheless, a last goodbye he was never given the time to say.

They lead him to a house that must have seen better times once upon a time, but probably not within this century. Its roof has given away, and it is overgrown with wild grass and moss, with one particularly optimistic sapling sprouting from the doorway. It is the kind of place travellers are usually cautioned to avoid; where wild nature come to life and is said to not look kindly upon human intruders.

He can see a gang of children forming a cautious half-circle around the structure, and after testing that the wall will not crumble under a little pressure, leans his hip against the stone and watches the scene. A much younger boy with windswept, coal-black hair and blue eyes is the only one not hanging back. "I'm not afraid of ghosts," he proclaims loudly.

If Wulf had known back then that ghosts were very much real, he might have done the sensible thing and not tempted fate. But sensible has never been Wulf's strong suit, grown-up or not. The boy takes a defiant step forward, visibly enjoying the muted gasps around him.

Wulf takes a step back at the same time and, after one last fond look, moves on. There is so much more for him to rediscover, and he is delighted to see Darius' Nose – named in honour of the man whose most prominent feature was his snotbucket's resemblance to a twelve foot tall rock – jutting out of the cliff that serves as a support for the poorest houses of this area. When he had run the streets with the other kids, climbing it had been a trial of bravery and strength. Wulf had made sue to excel at it, just so he could rub it in Matus' face, when the other boy couldn't haul his plump self up the long ridge. It had been retribution for all the times the butcher's son had shown up munching on a piece of ham or smoked sausage, unwilling to share.

And then Marcius had been so unfortunate to slide down from the top and to break his arm, and the other children were forbidden to go near it again.

Impulsive recklessness had spurned Wulf on to find a new challenge, to accomplish the forbidden – and in an act of defiance he had scaled the city walls. His heart had pounded wildly with every balancing step he had taken; so tall and foreboding they had seemed!

Wulfryk rubs his hand against the rough rock in passing, and it comes away covered in mortar. His touch sends small stones trickling down, and the gaps they leave provide plenty of foot and handholds.

Only a child could have imagined that by climbing the walls had he conquered the world.

But it wasn't nearly as fun doing it all alone, so when the excitement had waned, Wulf had followed the pack, ready to dash onwards, into new mischief.

He had always had a knack for running into trouble; quite literally. Wulf recalls the eventful day he met Ra'Jira, who is now the matron of the White Paws. The clan had taken him in as one of their own when, years later, he had come to call upon his old friend.

Wulf feels a brief pang of something it takes him a while to identify – it is the closest he has ever come to feeling homesick. But for all that he had loved living there, his place was not in Elsweyr. Differences could be bridged, but no amount of acceptance could get rid of them entirely. Khajiit ways have taught Wulf to take, but not to keep, and of all the friends he had made on his journeys, it was the itinerant cat-people who did not try to stop him, who understood that his path was that of snow and hoarfrost, and not scorching sands and sun-warmed bedrock.

There is no lingering trace of Ra'Jira left in the house she had rented during her brief stay in Bruma; it is now home to another.

Wulf moves on.

On its pedestal near the northern gate, the statue of the Hero of Kvatch is missing its head.

Wulfryk takes the first left and lets it lead him back to the main street. On the corner between the Blood and the Iron street, he passes the Lusia residence. Ivy has reclaimed the ground storey, and behind rusty bars, the once lush garden that used to bring passers-by to a stop, is wild and overgrown.

Caecilia had lived here, the blond darling girl of her parents. Her father had been a steward to the count and she had always worn the prettiest dresses, and played with exotic toys that her mother brought back from as far as High Rock.

Wulfryk doesn't stop. This place holds no memories worth holding on to. He suddenly longs for company, but in the middle of the busy street the masses part to flow around him. The people keep their heads down and those whose eyes are not on their feet hide their faces in fur-trimmed hoods.

For all that he knew most of them when growing up, Bruma is full of strangers.

Even the great chapel of Talos, the monument to the glory of the Empire, is gone. No sign of the man-god and patron of Bruma remains, safe for the bare walls that used to house his temple. Inside, the structure is blackened, as if from soot, but instead of being given up on and abandoned, it has been converted into a marketplace. Wulf feels a brief flash of pride and admiration for the practicality of the people of Bruma.

They may have lost much, but the bright canvases that span overhead, the heavy rugs decorating the walls – salvaged no doubt, the cries of the hawkers and the rich smells tell a story not of defeat, but of resilience.

The Nord strolls through the market, taking his time to feast his eyes on all the gaudy, ornamental, and ofttimes useless trinkets he doesn't need and cannot afford – and not strictly for their price. He finds all manner of jewellery, a beautifully carved miniature shrine, and dark drinking horn set in a silver holder, and each time he moves on quickly before the merchants spy him inspecting their wares.

One stall further towards the back seems to be particularly busy. Wulf makes his way over slowly, drawn by the milling crowd. His height gives him the advantage he needs to peek over heads when he stands on the tips of his toes. He does so, and looks right into the face of the past. Wulf hangs back until the last customer has gone, his purchase clutched to his chest to preserve the heat.

The dark haired and green-eyed girl behind the counter used to be the most popular one in all of Bruma. This at least seems to have remained the same.

Her eyes are on her stall, not flickering up at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Apologies sir," she says, "I'm all sold out."

"That's a shame. I always liked Myri's meat pies best."

"You knew my– ," she looks up then, and Wulfryk can see the exact moment she recognizes him, realization flooding her eyes. For a while all motion ceases, and the world around them is reduced to insignificant background noise. "Wulf?" she breathes, "Is that... is it really you?"

She still is pretty, but no longer radiant, the bright colours of youth washed out of her.

"Gloria," Wulfryk replies. "Still as beautiful as I remember you." The deep timbre of his voice lends the words more meaning than he intends, and he wishes he could take them back almost as soon as they leave his lips.

She laughs, clear and loud with surprise, and for a brief moment it reveals a glimmer of the girl he used to know. Back when there had been mud splatters on her dress and she had used to wear her hair in twin braids and not the bun of maternity.

"Frog-eyed, and hog-faced, I believe you called me once."

"Did I?" Wulf asks and hoists an eyebrow, the expression of innocence belied by his grin. That day is still sharp in his memory, after all. "My manners improved drastically since then. I'm a perfect gentleman."

Gloria's dimples disappear as she is no longer is smiling, and her hands clasp the counter with enough force to make the delicate bones visible beneath the skin.

"And I am a woman married."

 _Does she think really that– ? After all this time?_

"Gloria." Wulf shakes his head, chuckling despite the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Although I am fairly certain you are possessed of them, I have no interest in your womanly charms." Before she can answer, he continues, "It's been a long time. I'd merely like to hear the news and you look like you could do with a stiff drink."

"I need to make dinner for my family."

Had so much time really passed; enough to start and raise a family? To him it seems impossible, his own years lost in the rush of life. Maybe time works differently here.

"Go see to your family," he tells her and takes a step back. "And if you still want to know about whether Mermen really do live in Lake Rumare, come see me.

He can see curiosity and distrust war on her face and wonders – does she fear him?

She nods, and he can see that he is losing her. Wulf turns to leave. He does not expect for her to call after him, and the sound of her voice, stronger now that he no longer crowds her, gives him pause. "Where are you staying?"

"The Jerall View," Wulf throws back over his shoulder.

"Like you always said you would," she muses, and he is surprised that she would remember such a random piece of information.

"Aye," Wulf agrees.

He heads back to the inn then, taking the shortcuts that had served him well many times before.

The Jerall View has indeed undergone a transformation after nightfall. With the bar open, evening visitors pour in and the air is thick with the heady vapours of so many people crowded together and the atmosphere is vivid, loud and drunk.

Wulf doesn't stop to socialize, but instead seeks the solace of his room. Almost immediately he wishes he had stayed downstairs, but he does not feel like going back down. Wulf washes his hands in the basin on the dresser, and picks up the brush he set down next to it before. He studies the criss-cross of lines etched into his palms, darker rivers set in the ridged plains of his hands that no amount of scrubbing will remove. At least he knows that the dirt of the past months is from the road alone. Mud washes off easier than blood only as far as the mind is concerned.

Wulfryk is surprised when Martha comes to tell him that he has a visitor.

It can only be one person. Wulf changes his shirt to something a little more presentable now that he no longer wears a coat to hide it. On the way out his hand closes around the scabbard of his sword before he becomes aware of the action. He wavers about whether to take it or not. In the end, habit wins out. A sword isn't ideal for a fight indoors, but it has its uses, even if its only purpose is to distract potential attackers from the smaller, deadlier knife at his back.

"You promised me a drink," Gloria says in ways of greeting.

Wulf raises his eyebrows playfully, but gives in, "I guess I did. Go on then; pick whatever you like." He invites her to sit; and she does.

"Anything?"

"Anything," Wulf assures her. He has enough coin left, and the means to acquire more if the need arises.

She orders a ginger and canis root ale, and giggles when the bubbles tickle her nose.

He leans back and puts his right foot up on a nearby chair; carefully so that the visibly intoxicated Bosmer lady only half-occupying it doesn't notice. Under the table his sword leans against his leg, a comforting weight. He has to consciously keep his hands on the table to prevent himself from toying with the rough leather wrapped around the hilt.

 _Now where to begin?_

"How is the family?" Wulf enquires politely.

"Fed and well, thank you."

It's not much to go on, and the brevity of the answer does not encourage him to dig deeper. Wulf decides on a safer approach. "Not much seems to have changed."

"You did," Gloria replies immediately, a wicked glint in her eyes. They look bigger in the dim light of the common room; she must have done something with them, just as she has pinned up her hair. Her fingers lightly trace the hem of his shirt. "Is that brocade? Where did you get something this fine?"

'From a dead man,' he thinks and rubs his knuckles over the fabric. "I took it off a merchant king," he drawls, if only to see her eyes widen. "So who is the lucky husband?"

"Matus," she says, more to the glass than to him, and leans back again. A blush colours her cheeks a healthy rose colour.

Wulf wonders _, Why does she suddenly look ashamed?_

He pulls a face, the expression identical to one a boy a decade ago would have worn and says smoothly, "My condolences."

She regains her footing quicker than he expects, and retaliates with, "Speaking of family; what's your father doing these days?"

Wulf barely suppresses the flinch at the mention of his father. He can feel the man's shadow hanging over him, here more so than anywhere else. "Probably decomposing," he replies with faked cheer, "Though I cannot say for sure. Last time I saw him was a _long_ time ago."

Gloria nods and takes another sip of her drink. "The world's a better place without him."

Wulf is resigned to the stab of pain he still feels after all this time, along with the knowledge that she probably is right.

The situation requires a drastic change of topic, so Wulfryk picks the first thing that comes to his mind. "I passed by the Lusia manor today, but it seemed empty."

"They left with Cecil for the Imperial City," Gloria tells him sadly, "About a year after you were gone."

The year after his father had taken him to the Imperial City. The year also known as Peryite's. Suddenly he no longer wishes to know.

"They returned without her the next. Her parents didn't stay for long, they moved on, to Skingrad."

"I'm sorry." He isn't sure whether he means it. A vain little girl, she didn't deserve this fate. But then – who did?

"Thank you." It sounds more like a formality than any real thanks. "They told us you were dead, too."

Of course they would have. Wulf snorts. "I guess this proves what Vinicia said; that I'm worse than the plague."

Gloria starts to shake with laughter, cheeks round around a mouthful of her drink.

"Is the old bat still around?" Wulf asks, glad to have found a topic they can both make light of.

She shakes her head and slaps her palm against the table, and eventually manages to force down the liquid without spilling any of it. Gloria shoots him a filthy glare that Wulf laughs off, and takes a deep breath now that she can breathe again.

"Standarr, no," she mutters. "She left her husband for some fancy Breton dandy half her age. The whole town was in uproar. You didn't hear any of it?"

"No?" Wulf rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. "But do go on," he prompts. Digging up dirt is so much more fun when it's not him buried underneath all of it.

Wulf soaks up all the gossip and rumours and doesn't care that they are considered old news, and when there is nothing more to be said on that front he asks, "And what of the others?"

And so she tells him.

xxxx

"Gloria, is this man bothering you?"

A meaty hand lands on the woman's shoulder. It belongs to the man standing behind her. For somebody of his girth, his approach had been astonishingly stealthy. Perhaps because people searching for each other in inns is nothing of interest.

Now that he senses a potential conflict, Wulf leans back, to better look the new arrival in the face. It is none other than Matus. When Gloria said that her family is well and fed, she might have mentioned how well-fed her husband truly is.

"I'm right here, you know," Wulf says sweetly.

"Oy!" The husband is apparently not in the mood to barter words. "Leave my wife be you... scoundrel!"

Wulf does the only thing any other reasonable person in his stead would as well: he bursts out laughing. Wild, impulsive and armed with the knowledge that there are few acts as casually cruel as dismissing a man in this manner.

But then he had been their scapegoat for years, laughed at because of the dirty, ripped state of clothes, his lack of toys – or mother – the disgrace that his father was. All it had accomplished was to thicken his hide, to teach him to attack first and to hit harder than they ever could.

The joke is lost on the butcher. His complexion resembles that of the meat he sells when he draws himself up, and booms, "You think I ain't serious? Yeah? Fight me, if you dare!"

He has his fists up, so this has to be serious. Wulf is perplexed at the whole procedure. This isn't how tavern brawls work. The etiquette is to grab your opponent's head and make him kiss the table before he can shank you. Bruma is still part of the Empire, after all. These folks have spent far too much time living amongst Nords.

Everything about this situation is wrong. Wrong is also Matus' stance, the way he holds his arms, the flimsy fist he makes. He'd sooner break his own hand than hurt Wulf, even if by some miracle or Shor's guiding hand he managed to hit a vulnerable area.

"Do you have one of these?" Wulf's words fall soft as a lover's caress before he pulls out his sword, still sheathed, and holds the pommel under Matus's nose that he may get a good smell of the sweat and blood saturating the raw leather.

The other man recoils with wide eyes. Maybe he's afraid that Wulf will club him over the head with the pommel. If so, it is a legitimate fear.

"No?" Wulf prompts softly, voice still pleasantly light, and uncurls himself from his lounging position with a cat's fluid grace. When he rises to stand at his full height he feels a dark, savage pleasure at how small the other man becomes all of a sudden. "Then what are you going to fight me with?"

Matus stares, and then lowers his gaze to his fists. He had always tried to outdo Wulf. Climbing, fighting, it did not matter how often the younger boy planted his face in the ground, he always came back for more.

It wasn't that Wulf had been so much better, or stronger, no. The difference between them was that Wulf had the necessary rage and dogged determination that drove him to excel, whereas Matus, who had never lacked a comfort in his life, had never learned to fight tooth and nail for what he took as granted.

"Do I know you?" Matus asks abruptly.

"Uh-huh. Unfortunately, the displeasure I feel at our acquaintance can only be matched by your repugnance whenever you brave the looking-glass, Matus," Wulf drawls.

Gloria actually hiccups a laugh. She is tipsy already, he notices with an annoyed glance sideways.

It would be easy to mistake the situation, and for a moment a part of Wulf delights in the doubt on Matus' face.

Maybe his wife has a reputation. Gloria had always liked the attention she gotten from the boys. She had kissed him once, behind the chapel, if only to make Matus jealous. He had sucker-punched her, then, and stomped home, trying to wipe his cheek clean with a fistful of snow.

The memory sparks a feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach. Baiting these folks is like ripping legs off a grasshopper. If he wishes to indulge in petty violence, he can so elsewhere, without ruining their perfectly mundane lives. After all, what wounds they had dealt him had long since scabbed over.

He turns his head when Gloria swats his arm.

"You promised to be nice!"

Wulfryk tosses back his ale and sits back down, ordering the outraged husband to do the same with a brief gesture. His wife receives a roguish grin in answer. "I'm very much still a liar, I'm afraid."

Then he calls for another round of drinks. The right amount of alcohol is what he needs to make him feel mellow.

Matus is perching on the edge of his seat, glaring daggers at the dark haired Nord opposite him. "I don't trust you," he forces out, after a prolonged moment of silence.

Wulf snorts at the redundancy of the comment. "Like I care. Do you trust your wife?"

There is a moment of hesitation. Wulf catches it only because he has been expecting it.

Matus notices. A muscle in his jaw juts out, then he declares, "I do trust my wife."

"Excellent." Their drinks arrive. Wulf picks his tankard and raises it in the parody of a toast. "Cheers."

"Wulf was just telling me about the capital," Gloria says. She is either too drunk to have noticed their less-than-friendly exchange, or excellent at pretending that nothing has happened.

"How I wish I could see it someday," she continues dreamily.

Matus grunts. "What about our family?"

"Huh? Oh, I know I cannot leave," she says, hands fluttering, as if to wave the thought away. "It was just wishful thinking, is all."

He shifts in discomfort. "Maybe, when Felix is grown up, and he takes over the butchery... we can make the trip."

The way Gloria beams up at her husband makes Wulf think he doesn't have anything to worry about, after all.

Matus sounds surer of himself when he continues, "Valeria will be old enough to take care of Rose and Flavius can help Felix run the business. Yes." The word falls with the finality of a decision made.

"How is he?" Wulf remembers Flavius as a spoiled brat, always looking for trouble. It usually involved him for reasons unknown.

"Flavius?" Gloria asks. "He turned out really nice, actually. You knocked some sense into him, with that stone of yours."

Wulf slightly dips his head in acknowledgement of his achievement, taking the compliment like the humble soul he is. "I'm always glad to be of service."

Matus barks out a laugh that he tries to mask with a cough and pursed lips. He appreciates the drinks, if perhaps not the company, silently chaperoning for his wife.

 _Not my business._ Wulf mostly ignores him, happy when the favour is returned.

Gloria asks him for more stories of his travels. Matus pretends not to be interested at first, but eagerly leans forward when Wulf launches into one of his tales.

It is hard to believe that these are the same people who had laughed at him when he had told them that he would leave Bruma and make his fortune out _there_. He had spat in their faces that one day they'd see – one day he would return, a warrior who had seen the world, who didn't need the likes of _them_.

And so he had.

Now they sit with their mouths gaping open and their hands quivering with tension when he draws a perfect picture of the dangers of springing a bandit ambush.

It should have given him satisfaction, to see them hang onto his every word. How often had he wished – in silence and in secrecy – that their unimportant, mundane lives were his. Now he pities them. He can imagine few fates worse than to be stuck here; childhood, youth, and adulthood all blending together. They had taken over the work of their parents, married, given birth and now their children are running in the streets, completing the circle.

For their sake he hopes that one day they will get around to making the trip to the Imperial City, if only to have one adventure to remember life by.

Maybe if his father hadn't been the useless heap of dung he had been...

Maybes were for people too weak for the hard truth.

"What happened?" eventually comes the inevitable question.

They only had hearsay to piece together what had happened to make Wulf disappear from their lives from one day to the next. Most of the townsfolk agreed that Garmr had flown into a drunk rage and tried to kill Brutus.

Wulf listens, mouth dry and heart pounding, for once at a complete loss for words. Did they really think that it had been Garmr? The reason why they had fled the town was sitting right in front of them. The story must have gotten twisted beyond measure for them not to see it.

Wulfryk does not bother correcting the misconception. There is nothing to be gained from unfolding past wrongs.

His father had been exactly the kind of man who was proud that his son had taken an axe to another person, Wulf thinks sadly. These people would not last a single beat of the heart against somebody like – like himself.

How often had they been the cause for bitterness and anger? Yet they were also an integral part of his childhood. The two aspects are inseparably intertwined in his mind.

He wants to know they will continue being here.

It is early rather than late when Matus lays a gentle hand on his wife's forearm.

"We should head home."

She nods and gets up to retrieve their coats.

Wulf decides to go easy on her husband. "Take care of them, yeah?"

Charged with the task, Matus' chest puffs out and he nods. Though hot-headed, the man isn't a fighter – but then he is not a coward either, rather a man who knows and recognizes defeat. He will do alright by the people here.

Gloria returns and to his surprise gives him a light, friendly hug. "It was good to see you, Wulf. I'm sorry we used to be so mean to you. You turned out quite alright." She seems surprised that the words had left her lips, and blushes.

Her husband pretends not to have heard a word.

The corner of Wulf's mouth twitches upwards. "You'll make me think you don't want me to go away."

"Oh, no." She waves him off. "Nonononono. We don't need your kind of trouble here."

Wulfryk grins and sketches a proper Imperial bow in farewell.

They chuckle and wave, and Gloria calls over her shoulder, "Take care, Wulf."

oooo

On the morrow, it is time for him to continue his journey north. Wulf settles the bill with Martha, and sets out and does not look back. The time has come for him to move on.

* * *

Poor Wulf, he SO hates introspection.

Title taken from the song 'Bruises' by Band of Skulls.

Hope you enjoyed the story!


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